


stood atop the sea-wall

by veterization



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 04:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11775411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veterization/pseuds/veterization
Summary: Ten times Alex and Tommy touched.





	stood atop the sea-wall

**Author's Note:**

> Seeing Dunkirk in theaters was a religious experience and even though I've already seen it twice I WANT TO SEE IT THIRTY MORE TIMES, 100/100, WOULD RECOMMEND, PLS DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND GO SEE IT IF YOU HAVEN'T YET
> 
> Now for a confession: I came out of the movie ready to gorge myself on Tommy/Gibson but then found an overwhelming amount of Alex/Tommy on ao3, and as it has happened countless times before, really damn good stories have completely changed my mind. Since then I've written this, dabbled in the idea of writing a modern high school AU with these characters, and [created a fanmix](https://8tracks.com/veterization/don-t-be-scared-we-ll-make-it-through-tommy-alex) because I am really, really, really bad at controlling myself.
> 
> The canon divergence in this involves taking scenes that happened in Dunkirk and basically just queering the shit out of them, as is my wont. This entire plot was inspired by an actual canonical touch from the movie, however, because I swear to god the bit where Tommy and Alex walk into the destroyer and Alex keeps his hand on the small of Tommy's back REALLY HAPPENS. That, or I'm seeing things through very biased glasses, and it's not like THAT'S EVER HAPPENED BEFORE.
> 
> And lastly, this title comes from this [real life, heartbreaking, WWII era letter](http://i.huffpost.com/gen/1352261/thumbs/o-LETTER-570.jpg?1). I did a lot of research on homosexuals in the military for this story (including a very informative article on condoms and lube circa the 1940s), but this letter was easily the best and simultaneously worst thing I found.

The first time they touch, it’s there under that mole, when Tommy’s wedged between the slanted wood with his heart in his throat and splinters digging into his hands where he’s desperate to keep his hold on the slats while the bombs attack overhead, crashing into the sea. The hospital ship comes groaning and crashing inward, and Tommy watches the men aboard all leap into the water without finesse, swimming frantically.

It’s uncalculated mayhem, because the boat is racing toward the mole, croaking forward faster and faster, and Tommy can hardly hear anything over the sound of his furiously beating heart in his ears, but can still hear the sound of screaming men.

Tommy reaches out and grabs for the soldier swimming towards him, arms thrashing, and he drags him onto the wood just in time as the boat smashes against the mole. The boy’s grip is tight on his forearm, fingers digging in claws, and Tommy heaves him up.

He’s heavy, the water only weighing him down into the sea, but Tommy still manages to pull him to safety, fingers scrambling to find purchase on his sopping clothes. It registers dimly in the back of his mind that Tommy’s just saved his life.

The soldier slumps against the mole, shaking, weak. He looks at Tommy and nods in what Tommy interprets as a silent thank you, finally letting go of the talon’s grip he has in Tommy’s forearm.

The touch sears into Tommy’s skin long after he’s let go.

\--

The second time is just a few hours later, when they’re marshaled onto the second ship. The soldier--Alex--is sticking close to Tommy, and Tommy’s not sure why; he doubts it’s out of some attachment born of gratitude for what Tommy did for him on the mole. If the way he holds his head and strides down the pier is anything to go by, thankfulness doesn’t seem to be a thing Alex feels, at least feels the need to express. Tommy isn’t too surprised. He’s met soldiers like him, those who have seen too many people they’ve acquainted been eviscerated by bombs moments later and have opted out of bothering to make friendships by now, hardened into pure self-preservation. Tommy gets it. He’s not exactly expecting to come out of this with friends either.

If he comes out of this at all.

Still, Alex stays close. He stays behind Tommy the entire time they walk down the pier, and when they’re herded onto the destroyer, Alex is close behind. The back of his palm presses into Tommy’s backside as they head down the stairs, like he doesn’t want to lose Tommy in the crowd, like he wants to stay anchored to him, and Tommy just—he doesn’t quite understand. He doesn’t pull away either, though.

“What’s wrong with your friend?” Alex asks as they grab slices of bread, cocking his head to the door.

Tommy turns around and looks. “He’s looking for a quick way out. In case we go down.”

Alex nods, eyebrows furrowed. He eats like he’s eager to get his hands free, cheeks full of bread as he chews. Tommy is slightly envious. He hasn’t eaten properly in a while, but his appetite is withered down, nerves too threadbare to allow him to enjoy the meal. It doesn’t help that even though their uniforms have dried by now, the entire boat still reeks of dankness, of muddy water lingering in the air.

Around him, they’re surrounded by soldiers, packed in like cattle. It pushes Alex right up against him, leaving little room between their shoulders, especially when someone shoulders past and pushes them into each other. Alex is a sturdy chest, one that doesn’t buckle under all the pushing and shoving, and Tommy steadies himself a few times on Alex’s elbow.

They edge along the narrow space, weaving between the crowds of chattering men as they head for the tea. Alex keeps his hand against the small of Tommy’s back the entire time they walk, just a slight, constant pressure. It’s almost comforting.

And then the torpedo hits, and everything goes dark.

\--

The third time is right after they’ve made it out.

They’re swimming, frenziedly, the dark night making it hard to orient themselves, heads still murky from lack of oxygen. Salt water pours into Tommy’s mouth as he tries to stay afloat, hardly trusting the lifejacket to do so, and when the men forcefully keep him from boarding the row boat, he’s desperate, head spinning, and from the sound of his yelling, Alex is too.

“Wait till you’ve been torpedoed!” Alex is shouting, spitting, but the soldiers on board don’t care, aren’t even listening.

They tell them to wait, to bob in the water like sitting ducks, helpless to any attacks flying out of the night, and then they start rowing away, Tommy’s stomach a massive lump in his throat.

Gibson tosses them the rear painter. Alex makes a grab for it, hands a bit to Tommy, and then grasps Tommy’s arm under the water, like he’s a second life jacket, grip bruisingly tight.

It’s not necessary; the life jackets are keeping them afloat. It could be born out of fear, a skittishness brought about since they were very nearly trapped to drown in a sinking destroyer, but it feels more like a seeking of assurance, a desperation. Tommy twists his arm around enough to grab onto Alex too, wrapping his hand around his elbow, a silent comfort.

 _We’re not going down_ , he’d say if he wasn’t still spitting salt water out of his mouth. The life jackets work, they have to work—if they have anything to fear, it’s the bombs that could come out of the sky at any minute.

Alex is holding on tightly enough to cut off his blood supply. It feels like Tommy’s arm is going purple, about to fall off any moment, but he doesn’t shake it free, letting Alex clutch him. The rope’s bristles are digging into his hands, making it harder and harder to hold on, but Alex is still a steady weight, a firm thing to find purchase on, their grip on each other hidden underneath the moonless waves.

The boat pulls endlessly toward a shore. The men on board mention Dover over and over again, dismissing the threat of rocky waters, the idea of home too appealing to deny. Tommy shuts his eyes, water on his lashes, and isn’t even sure what he hopes for. Being dragged back to Dunkirk beaches, back to a shrinking perimeter, or being swept under the waves while the boat braves the rocky channel back to England, clinging to oxygen after each swell of water pushes him under.

He’s exhausted, limbs boneless and pliant by the time they get scooped up by the tide and washed ashore. The last thing he recalls before he falls asleep right there on the sand, drained to his core, is Alex only letting go of him when the beach comes into view.

\--

The fourth time is in the crewless crawler, when they’re waiting for the tide to come in.

Nothing about the belly of the boat is comfortable, not the hard curve of the metal, or the jagged edges of the chains, or the coarseness of the ropes on the ground, but Tommy hasn't slept properly in days. He doesn't actually know how much time has passed, how many hours he's gone on sheer adrenaline, how long he slept in fitful spurts on that beach, nothing but pure exhaustion guiding his body into rest, but it's all catching up to him now, just how tired he really is. He aches for it, aches for a good slumber without gunshots—real or dreamt—jerking him awake, and the darkness of the ship is luring him into sleep.

All the other boys are sleeping too, or at least trying, even if their rifles are propped up in their arms to be ready to wield them just in case. Tommy understands. His fingers are twitching to have his gun back in his hands, to find that comfort—however false it is—in the promised safety of a weapon in his grip.

Water washes up and around the boat every few seconds. It's hardly a few trickles, definitely not the tide, but Tommy can still hear the distant sound of the waves. It's somehow simultaneously soothing, like a steady heartbeat, and terrifying, like a monster roaring to be fed and swallow them all whole.

He closes his eyes, but he's not sure his brain will calm down long enough to let him sleep.

Next to him, a shoulder is pressed flush against his arm. It's Alex; Tommy recognizes the pattern of his breathing by now, even though it’s far from calm. It’s ragged, uneven, torn into. Different from when Tommy woke up on the beach, seawater lapping up his body and making him shiver, and he could hear the deep, steady sounds of Alex’s inhales and exhales next to him.

A hand seizes Tommy’s wrist, hard. It makes him jump, every little noise and shred of movement pulling his muscles into knots, but it's just Alex, fingers clamped around his arm like a vice.

Tommy finds his eyes in the dark, tries to calm his racing pulse. “Awake?” Alex asks, voice a tight whisper.

Tommy nods. Even if he wasn't before, he is now. There's panic on Alex’s face, hardly veiled, and for a moment, Tommy wonders if he's heard something, if there's someone out there. It's not impossible—they're not on Dunkirk anymore, much too far east. They beached up on Zydecotte, and Tommy can only imagine what the enemy has to say about that if they find them.

“Y’hear something?” Tommy asks, keeping his voice low.

Alex's fingernails dig into Tommy's wrist. He shakes his head. “They're coming. You fucking know that, right?”

“What?”

“We’re not going to make it out of this fucking thing alive,” Alex is hissing in a whisper, voice fierce and angry and a little wild, whites of his wide eyes alarming in the dark boat. He lets out a hysterical huff of laughter. “The tide’s never fucking coming.”

Tommy shakes his head. The tide is coming; it has to come. He doesn’t like waiting either, not when the darkness of the boat is starting to close on him a little bit, pushing against him. Is it really any better than being out there on the beach in enemy territory? Are they not trapping themselves in here?

“It’s coming,” Tommy whispers.

“And what if it doesn't?” Alex says. “What if the Germans come and get us before the bloody ocean does?”

He's shaking. In the dim light, Tommy can see that much, how his hand is curled into a trembling fist by his side.

Tommy shakes his head again. “They won't,” he says, although he has no idea. He's terrified of the exact same thing, of heavy boots making footsteps up above and waking up just in time to see German soldiers stick their guns in all their faces. The second he lets himself entertain thoughts like this, he loses his grip on just another shred of hope, which is scarce enough already as it is.

“For fuck’s sake,” Alex curses. “They very well could.”

“Go to sleep,” Tommy tells him, even if it's advice he can't follow himself. Maybe Alex is asleep right now, maybe he's just sleep-talking himself through a nightmare of this very moment gone wrong.

Alex doesn't listen. His grip on Tommy’s wrist tightens until it feels like blood isn't even flowing to his fingers any more.

“What if this was it?” he whispers, scooting closer. He sounds frantic, harried, urgent, like he's already sitting in front of a barrel of a gun. “What if we died tonight, huh?”

Tommy isn't going down this road. He's already run through all these worst case scenarios a million times over in his brain, has been doing so ever since they realized they were stranded in Dunkirk, and he's sick to his stomach at the idea of doing it over and over. He turns on his side, settling away from Alex and wrenching his wrist free, the spot where his fingers dug in prickling from restricted blood flow.

Alex isn't deterred by Tommy’s backside. Within seconds, he's close enough to push himself up against Tommy, pressing flush against his damp clothing, a hand snaking around Tommy’s torso to squeeze at his stomach.

“C’mon,” he says, breath hot on Tommy’s ear. “If this is it—”

“This isn't it,” Tommy mutters, and he has no clue, he doesn't have a fucking clue if it is, but he can't even concentrate on making any of this clear now that Alex is wrapped around him, heaving chest tight against Tommy and hand warm and broad and fidgeting against Tommy’s belly. He's dizzy, dizzy with fatigue and hunger and the touch of Alex, the smell of Alex, the greedy sensations of Alex touching him, pushing himself closer. Close enough that—

Alex is hard.

“If we fucking die down here,” Alex hisses, and Tommy is frozen, unsure of what words to say out loud. “D’you really—do you want to have never—”

His hand slides down from Tommy’s stomach, curling instead over the waistband of his pants, moving even further southward until it’s grabbing Tommy through his clothes, fingers rough. He’s all but panting against Tommy’s nape by now, movements hectic and unsteady with fear and desperation, and Tommy can feel the same anxiety lurking under the surface with himself, begging to snap just like Alex’s. He closes his eyes, can feel his entire body trembling, and wishes he wasn’t reacting to any of this, but he is, he _is_ , and a tidal wave of shame and want and impulse rushes over him.

Alex reaches for his belt buckle. It clinks, the barest of sounds that still manages to echo through the boat, and Tommy grabs his wrist, stilling him.

“Shh,” Tommy whispers. “Don’t—don’t wake them.”

Alex nods, exhaling on Tommy’s neck. He unbuckles Tommy’s belt, but with gentler fingers this time, careful not to make a sound. Next to him, Gibson is still sleeping, his breathing even, and it sounds like the entire boat is sleeping too, but Tommy knows that at best, it’s fitful, and he knows that the slightest noise will wake them all. It’s advice he almost fails to implement himself when Alex undoes his pants enough to slip a hand in and wrap around Tommy’s cock, stroking it to hardness embarrassingly fast, unraveling him, making him bite back moans.

He can’t believe they’re doing this, he can’t believe he’s letting this happen, he can’t believe Alex’s fingers are pumping his dick, his mouth on the back of Tommy’s neck, biting down as if warning him to stay quiet. He hasn't had a hand that isn't his own touch him like this in ages, and combined with all this pent-up energy and horrible tension and crippling fear, fear of what's coming next or if anything’s coming at all, is making it all too easy for Tommy to succumb to Alex's ministrations. Alex rocks against him, hardness pushing over his clothed ass, and Tommy moans, nearly loudly enough to get everybody's attention.

Alex bites down on the sharp tendon in Tommy's neck. “C’mon,” he mutters. “You gotta be quiet too, y’know.”

Tommy nods but doesn't say anything, too concerned that if he opens his mouth, groans will inevitably slide out. He knows that they shouldn't be doing this, that being caught could spell trouble for them if they do end up being lucky enough to get off this damn beach. None of these boys has any real loyalty to them, could easily rat them out and get them discharged—or worse—if they wake up and get a whiff of what's happening here.

Then again, there's a chance they might never make it out at all, so fuck it.

Tommy grabs Alex’s wrist, guiding his hand into a faster tempo. He doesn’t need any finesse here, not when he hasn’t let go like this in a while, not when all they’re really looking for here is a fast release. He ruts backward into the hard line of Alex’s cock that’s riding the curve of Tommy’s ass, looking for friction.

It’s not as good as it could be. It would be better if it was skin-on-skin, Alex’s cock pushing insistently between Tommy’s ass cheeks. It would also be infinitely better anywhere other than the dark gut of a trawler, a thick chain pressing into Tommy’s side and the ever-looming threat of the enemy jumping on board keeping him alert and clammy, but then again, if they were somewhere safe and warm and dry, they might not be doing this at all.

“C’mon, Tommy,” Alex says into his ear, biting down on it, teeth scraping up his earlobe, and that’s so much more arousing than it should be, Alex breathing his name like that. “So good, yeah?”

Tommy nods, not trusting his voice to speak. It is good, even though it’s sloppy and uncoordinated. Alex is thrusting against him with no smoothness, his hand just as rough with Tommy’s cock, smearing precome around to ease the slide of his palm. He noses underneath Tommy’s ear, tongue darting out before he bites down on the sensitive skin there, pushing fast, graceless kisses on the exposed stretch of Tommy's neck.

“Wish it wasn't like this,” he mumbles onto Tommy's skin—at least, Tommy thinks that's what he's saying. His eardrums feel like they're thickening with pleasure and blocking out all sound, drowning out everything and anything but Alex’s deft hands. “Wish we had time.”

Tommy doesn't know what Alex is talking about. Life? War? _Them?_ He wants to ask but doesn't want to risk it, already louder than he knows he should with the helpless whimpers Alex is drawing out of his throat. He has no idea what the other boys are hearing if they're awake right now, but reckons it doesn't sound innocuous. Alex's breathless panting. Tommy's bitten-back moans. The ever-moving, rustling fabric of their clothes rubbing against each other.

And then Alex's hand twists just right at the head of Tommy's cock, thumb playing with the underside, and Tommy’s breath staggers out his throat. He's not going to last.

“Wanna feel it,” Alex says behind his ear, mouth wet. “Wanna see how you lose it.”

How is he saying these things? How is it _working_ on Tommy? He readjusts against the hard ground, fighting back the urge to rut and thrust and work in time with Alex's hand, body starting to coil and stretch and go stiff like a rubber band, ready to break. He's going to come, and he's going to come because of Alex, and that alone is already so hard to wrap his head around that he almost feels like he comes from shock alone, jolts of pleasure slapping him. Alex bites down, hard, into his neck to keep him from making any noise, although it achieves the opposite—Tommy moans, the sound broken and needy. It might be that that’s what pushes Alex over the edge too, because a second later, Alex’s hips are stuttering and his breathing shallows.

There's almost a ringing in his ears when it's over, all the rising tension and breathless noises and squirming suddenly gone and leaving silence in its wake. Around them, the other boys aren't moving a muscle, hopefully still deep asleep, unaffected and oblivious. Tommy rolls over just enough to see Alex, his glistening brow, his blotchy cheeks, his flushed neck, and feels his spent dick twitch at the sight.

He did that, he thinks, nearly feeling faint. _They_ did that. Alex’s panted breaths onto his jaw solidify that into reality for him as he buckles his belt back up and tries to catch his breath, lost somewhere in his lungs.

Alex’s nose nudges the shell of Tommy’s ear, mouth parting on his skin. It seems like he’s ready to say something, whisper it into the spot behind his ear, and—

A creaking from upstairs tenses them both.

“Hear that?” Alex asks, and even with his lips right by Tommy's ear, he almost doesn't hear him. He nods, Alex's hand tightening around his hip for a hot, prickling moment of fear, and then the noise sounds again.

Footsteps. From up above.

It’s only a matter of seconds after that for the entire boat to wake up, and just like that, the moment, the spell, whatever it is they just did, is over.

\--

The fifth time is on the yacht that rescues them.

Most of that is a complete blur. Tommy is certain his brain was already in the middle of repressing it all while it was happening, from swimming through the slick oil to diving under until his head felt like bursting to avoid the flames to being hoisted up onto a slick boat and staring up, foggily, into the face of anxious men, begging to be taken home. It took him a few moments to even realize he was alive.

They all cram themselves downstairs. He doesn’t think anybody really wants to be there, not when it’s too reminiscent of all the other boats they’ve been stuck in and torpedoed out of, flooded out of, shot out of, but it’s better than writhing through the fiery oil.

Tommy scans the dirty faces of all the soldiers packed in with him. He can’t find Gibson, and he hopes, he just hopes—but he’s also so tired, so overwrought with exhaustion and lingering terror and trembling, shivering skin. He’s not sure he has it in him to be miserable as well. His body might just collapse and not make it back up again if he lets the depression seep in.

He catches Alex’s eye across the boat. The thing is filthy by now, mud everywhere, oil everywhere, smeared across the shiny floorboards and the certificates up on the wall. Tommy doesn’t even know who rescued them, who’s manning the wheel. Alex is sitting in his own puddle of filth, hardly recognizable underneath all that brown and black caked over his body, his uniform, his face. Only his eyes really stand out, and they’re already lasered onto Tommy when he turns to look at him, his gaze unflinching. Tommy feels a strange pull inside him, a tug to be closer to him, as close as he’s been these last few days. Has it been days? Has it been weeks? All he knows is that it seems like for as long as Tommy has been at Dunkirk, Alex has been there when he turns around.

It makes him feel a little numb realizing that that’s going to change at some point. Probably soon. Just because they’ve been evacuated doesn’t mean they’re done. The war is raging on. The bombs are going to keep falling.

He nods at Alex. Alex looks away.

The sea lulls some of them asleep while the boat rocks its way back to England, but Tommy doesn’t sleep. His limbs feel heavy and his eyelids even heavier, but he can’t sleep, not here, maybe not ever again. Right now it all feels so uncertain.

It feels like they’re on that boat for hours before the waters get calmer. All of them sit in silence, fatigued and grimy and shame-stricken, wondering what ridicule awaits them in England, while Tommy tries to figure out exactly how it is he even made it here. He should be at the bottom of the ocean. He should be floating back over to the beach with the tide for another soldier to steal his canteen off his body. But yet somehow he’s here, safe, secure, heading toward home, away from the Germans, away from the bombs. It isn’t quite sinking in yet. That feeling of safety, he’s not sure he’ll ever fully be saturated in it.

He closes his eyes at one point, just imagining the sight of home, the landscape, the colors, until he realizes he can just see the real thing for himself. He heads upstairs and Alex is right behind him a moment later, and if he’s been watching Tommy, Tommy can’t quite blame him. He’s been watching Alex a lot too, eyes swiveling over to him as if using him as proof that any of this happened at all, that this last week hasn’t all been just a grisly nightmare.

He watches the cliffs go rolling by, realizes this is the most soothing sight he’s laid his eyes on in months. They’re so green, greener than Tommy remembers. Everything seemed so devoid of color at the beach, everything fading out into a neutral gray. The sand. The water. The sky.

Alex’s hand finds the fabric at the back of his shirt, his fist curling into it. It’s a tight grip, one that would hurt if it was skin-on-skin, but when Tommy looks over his shoulder at him, Alex doesn’t say a word, jaw set, eyes trained on the horizon.

It’s odd, but it’s a soothing touch. It feels like it’s saying a thousand things, things Alex probably can’t bear to say out loud, and Tommy closes his eyes, fuck the cliffs, and focuses on the grounding, pacifying feeling of Alex holding onto him.

He leans back into it, and hopes Alex understands.

\--

The sixth time is on the train. Tommy stays on Alex’s heel this time, not keen to lose him in the darkness as they grab blankets and sandwiches on their way. He’s not even sure why. Alex was ready to sacrifice him in that trawler, send him up right after Gibson.

 _We’re regimental brothers, mate. Just the way it is,_ he had said, sweaty rifle in hand. Remembering it sends a chill down Tommy’s spine.

Alex says something to him when they get settled on the seats, but Tommy doesn’t hear him; his mind is all but shutting down with exhaustion after refusing to nap on the boat. Even with the bright lights in the train, bright enough to shine behind his eyelids after he closes them, he just wants to sleep.

He looks over at Alex for a moment before he does. He’s saying something—something about that bloke not looking them in the eye. Tommy wouldn’t think twice about it if it weren’t for the tightness on Alex’s face, the red rims of his eyes, that brashness, that pushiness, that arrogance he’s been walking around with the last few days that’s suddenly not there.

But then he’s falling asleep, eyes so, so heavy, and when he wakes up, it’s to sunlight. To green nature outside the window. To Alex, asleep against the wadded up blanket he’s pushed against the seat. He looks startlingly different here in the bright daylight, somewhere where salt water isn’t stinging Tommy’s eyes. He looks younger, kinder. Softer.

One of Tommy’s legs has stretched out under the table, and he realizes after a moment that Alex’s foot is hooked around his ankle, keeping him close, maybe something one of them did unconsciously while sleeping.

Without meaning to, he thinks about what happened in the boat. Alex’s breath on his neck, hot mouth on his ear, heaving chest pressed against his backside. Hands down his thighs. Did that actually happen? How did that happen?

Alex’s eyes flutter open. There’s a persistent noise outside the window, a pinging, a rhythmic sound that was probably responsible for Tommy awakening as well. Their ankles unhook as they sit up.

He reads the paper for the both of them while Alex gets on his knees and accepts food from the people knocking on the windows. He looks deliriously happy, greeted with jubilantly open arms instead of glares and spits of disdain, and takes his time taking large bites out of an apple he was offered. It might just be the first time Tommy has ever seen him smile.

It takes a while for the train to reach a full stop after that. Alex grabs the paper from Tommy, reads the article for himself when he realizes that he isn't going to be met with stinging critiques about their service to their country, and he must reread that article a good three, four times, eyes stuck to it.

“Not so bad,” Alex says. He looks up at Tommy, cocking his head toward the window. It looks like he's pressing his tongue against his teeth to keep a grin at bay. “They think we're heroes, don't they?”

Tommy doesn't feel like a hero. He hardly even feels like a survivor, really, and he's definitely that. He looks at the beer bottle on the table, the one Alex slid over to his side, and doesn't think he has the appetite for it.

“Here,” Alex says, handing the paper back. His fingers brush Tommy's as he does so, and abruptly Tommy is thinking of dank air, the clank of his belt buckle, Alex’s hand on his cock. It shouldn't be so easy to remind him of that, but it is.

Alex’s shoe nudges Tommy’s under the table. It doesn’t loop its way around Tommy’s ankle again, not for the whole ride into the station, but Tommy still remembers how it felt, how warm it was.

\--

The seventh time barely happens at all.

They get a hot meal once they get off the train, one that actually manages to mollify Tommy's throat, and get led into sleeping quarters. Tommy hardly remembers a word of it, the sentences people are saying to him too long and his ears still ringing from the deafening sound of bombs exploding ships and eyes too sluggish, and he falls asleep easily once again, which is an unexpected blessing. The men around him aren't all as lucky, which Tommy isn't at all surprised by; he rather suspects his own peaceful night was more of a fluke than anything else.

Dreamless it may be, he still doesn’t have a solid night of sleep, the others consistently rousing him with their restless slumbers. The littlest noises wake Tommy up from sleep. He can’t sink into a deep slumber anymore, not like he used to what feels like lifetimes ago, anything from a cricket to passing footsteps to gentle snoring jolting him awake these days.

It’s mostly Alex that wakes him, though, his bed the closest to Tommy’s. It gets worse each night. It starts out with endless tossing and turning from his bed that morphs into him jerking like a man startled every few minutes that then becomes soft, broken whimpers muffled into a pillow.

Maybe it’s all starting to catch up with him, Tommy thinks, remembering his red eyes on the train. Everything feels different now that survival isn’t pressing down on them anymore. Everything stares right back at them now here in the dark, on land, in safety. Every decision they made.

Tommy remembers all of Alex’s decisions. How quick he was to sacrifice Gibson, any of them. It would only make sense that Alex remembers too.

Tommy watches him as he sleeps—or tries to, really. He can imagine what he’s dreaming about. The same thing Tommy’s dreaming about too: water. Gunshots. U-boats. The smell of burning oil. Swimming for the waterline and always being just out of reach.

He never knows if he should wake Alex or not, if he’ll appreciate being awoken or wake up in a wild fit, shaking and shouting. He decides to not, to fend for himself, because Alex certainly does the same, and it’s fairly unlikely that Alex would do any different if he Tommy was the one writhing on his bed, caught in a nightmare.

But three nights in, he finds he can’t ignore it anymore, can’t just do nothing. Alex is a wreck a few feet away, and maybe he’s dreaming of the boat, of the water spilling in and going above their heads, of the target practice that shoved all their hearts into their guts.

Tommy reaches out, puts a hand on Alex’s backside. The muscle there is taut, stretched like a tightrope, shoulders hunched like a sick bird. He’s warm, almost too warm, shirt damp with sweat.

Alex tilts backward, into the touch, just about an inch. Tommy jerks his hand back, suddenly petrified of being caught.

That very morning, Tommy watches Alex fiddle uselessly with his bedsheets after he wakes up, Alex’s eyes veined red and outlined with tired circles. There's a guilt there, a morbid guilt, that's creeping up on him. That he isn't admitting to out loud. Whenever someone's near, Alex clearly does his best to look like the same unaffected, self-serving, cocky soldier from a ways back, shooting jokes around with the rest of the men and grabbing more than his fair share of food at the cafeteria when he thinks no one’s looking.

The thing is, Tommy is always looking. It's why he knows Alex is fraying at the edges.

Gibson isn’t among them, that much is clear. Tommy keeps wanting to ask Alex about it, because he hardly remembers any other faces from who was down there in that trawler with him. He’s repressed so much of it, leaving the rest to be startlingly vivid, so crisp in his mind that he’s not sure he’ll ever forget Alex’s breath against his neck. Or the look on Gibson’s face when Alex thrust the barrel of a gun in his face, an action that crossed all language barriers and didn’t need to be explained.

“Bad dreams?” Tommy finally asks him after watching him fiddle with the edge of his linens for a good ten minutes.

Alex's eyes snap up. “What?”

Tommy flicks his eyes to the bed and wonders if it was a bad idea to bring this up. “You're having trouble sleeping.”

Alex shakes his head, doesn't make eye contact. “Don't know what you're on about, mate.”

Yes, you do, Tommy wants to scream. He watches Alex do this every night—every day too—wrench himself through horrible thoughts and nightmares and memories of things better left forgotten, better left behind at Dunkirk. Alex knows exactly what he's on about. Tommy knows, he knows like nobody else does, because he was there, in all the places Alex was. On the beach, watching the corpse-ridden tide roll in. In the water, clinging onto that rope Gibson threw to them with pruned fingers. In the trawler, stifling gasps together as they pushed against and toward each other’s bodies.

Tommy almost wants to bring that last bit up just to watch Alex break. Maybe he'd yell at Tommy, or maybe he'd deny everything, or maybe he'd twist it all around and blame Tommy for it before getting all the other blokes to believe it too and get Tommy kicked out of the army with a blue discharge on his back.

“In that boat,” Tommy says, mouth dry. “Would I have been next?”

Alex turns to him again. “What?”

“After Gibson,” he clarifies. “Would you have really tried to get me to go up next?”

Would you have jammed your gun in my face a few hours after you had your hand down in my pants? he thinks but doesn't say. He knows that in that moment, he would've; Alex had essentially promised as much when he sided with his regiment, who were all too happy to push Tommy up that ladder. He holds his gaze steady, but Alex looks to be at a loss for words, shocked that this is what Tommy chose to ask. That he's even asking at all, perhaps.

“Tommy,” he says.

“Just tell me,” Tommy tells him, because he's pretty sure he already knows the answer.

Alex is quiet for a long stretch. Then, at last, he says, “I hope not.” He's quiet again for a moment. “Because—” He stops himself and doesn't continue, body frozen before he abruptly shakes his head, like ridding his brain of an unwanted thought. “I don't know,” he says, sounding startlingly earnest. “But I really hope not.”

Tommy supposes that’s the best he’s going to get. Amazingly, it’s more than he actually expected. He nods.

“I don't feel fucking good about it,” Alex admits. He's looking steadfastly at his knees now, voice wet with the threat of emotion. “Okay? I know what I did and I feel like the worst—” He stops himself again, the last syllable breaking.

Tommy hasn’t seen him like this before. There was that moment on the train when Tommy was nearly dizzy with exhaustion when he thought he might’ve spotted tear tracks on Alex’s cheeks, but if they were ever there, they were wiped away long before daytime could illuminate them. That excited boy grabbing beers from passersby through the window isn’t here now; he’s been replaced by something small, vulnerable, cowering in on his own regret. Before, Tommy hadn’t even been sure that Alex had felt any regret. Now it seems absurd to have doubted that.

He doesn’t know what to say. It’s fine? It’s not. It wasn’t then, and it isn’t now, even if they’re both still alive. He understands? He supposes he does, even if a hurt, angry, sore part of himself is still stung that it happened.

Maybe Alex was just siding with the masses, unwilling to go against his regiment, his brothers. Maybe the pressure from all their guns and the leaking holes in the ship were coaxing him into it. Maybe he took one look at Tommy in the light after having jerked him off and felt sick, nauseated, repulsed, horrible, and never wanted to look at him again.

“Okay,” Tommy finally says, feeling compelled to say something.

“Okay?” Alex repeats. “What, like it’s okay as long as I feel like shit about it?”

Tommy shakes his head, and not for the first time, he wonders if Alex thinks the world is as hardened as he is. “No. Just—okay.”

The truth is, he doesn't want Alex to feel like shit. It won't get him anywhere, neither of them. Everybody here already feels like shit as it is, so what's the point in making it worse? And Alex—

Tommy swallows. He doesn’t get it, but Alex is different. _He_ and Alex are different. They’re tied together too tightly, bound by something more powerful than whatever transgressions they’ve made. It’s bizarre, it’s unexplainable, but when Tommy looks over at Alex before he goes to sleep, the barbed knot in his chest that makes it hard to breathe gets a little easier to deal with.

That night when Tommy listens to Alex shake and whine, he scoots closer and wraps an arm around him until he quiets. It’s technically the eighth time they touch, but it’s what he should have done the seventh time.

\--

The eighth time takes Tommy by surprise.

They don't have much time left in Woking, they all know that. It boils down to only about a week of rest before the army is ready to send them all out again, position them straight back into the war they were just saved from. Everyone keeps saying that after Dunkirk, everything else will be a breeze, easy. Tommy is pretty sure that even the people telling him so don't actually believe it.

Lots of the men head out to the nearby bars during their last few days in town, looking for a good time and quality liquor to help them forget what's coming ahead. Tommy doesn't intend on coming along—it's mostly a group of Highlanders, leaving Tommy as the sore thumb outcast—but they all insist, much chummier now than they were on the trawler when it was all about isolation, about sticking to their own kind.

Tommy still can't quite look at most of them, much less take their invitations as earnest offers when they demand he get some fresh air and leave the barracks already, but he comes anyway because Alex is going and, well. He stupidly wants to stay close to him.

He shouldn't. He should be getting used to not having Alex around at all, since soon they'll all be separated and stationed hundreds of miles apart and probably won't ever see each other again, but he doesn’t want to, at least not yet. So he says he'll go and he does, against his better judgement.

The bar they all find is low-lit, the ambience pleasant enough, but Tommy isn’t quite sure he belongs there. The Highlanders are their own group, their own tightly-knit pack, and try as they might to include some of the others, they always end up curled in their own crowd, sharing exclusive jokes, laughing over shared experiences.

It doesn’t help that when Tommy looks at them, he sees the trawler, the men there who were all too happy to hold him at gunpoint by the ladder. He doesn’t even know if any of the men here are the same, but the memory of being told _you’re next_ sticks in his mind firmly regardless.

And then there’s Alex, who is—different, admittedly, when all the other boys from his regiment are around. Most of the furtive touches he and Tommy share, from the shoulder squeezes to the knee pats to the brushing of their fingers when they pass rations to each other, transform into furtive glances, wordless ones across a room. Tonight, there are no glances. Alex is a few tables away, busy with a girl.

It eats Tommy up inside, more than it has any right to, more than it should. He sees them talking, unable to make out the words, and is cemented between being unable to watch and being unable to look away.

He shouldn’t be angry. He _can’t_ be angry. What happened before—what happened in the trawler—what’s happened since—it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t actually mean anything. He has no right.

She's pretty, which makes it worse. She almost reminds Tommy of a girl in his hometown, one who always doted on him in school, back before the army swept him away. He never quite bothered to pay attention to her. Not like he's paid attention to—well.

Alex doesn't seem to mind her in the least. The smile he gives her is charming, if not overly so, but it exposes his dimples, his nice teeth, the sharp line of his jaw up to his ear. She laughs at something he says to her, something most likely funnier than the horrors of war they're all still fresh from, and Tommy feels sick.

He can't watch this. He can't watch because all he keeps thinking is about Alex's body close to his own in the boat, Alex's hand tight on his arm when they hung onto the rope from the row boat, Alex’s shockingly bright smile on the train. It's making him want to do ludicrous things, like storm over there and let wicked, spiteful words wing their way out of his mouth like a poison and tell this girl about the real Alex, the one who was ready to sacrifice everybody but himself, the one who was snarling in Tommy’s face about how survival’s not fair, war’s not fair. It would be childish, and he know he’d regret it instantly, but he still wants to. He wants to _horribly_.

Tommy's burning. He feels red hot with suppressed anger, with feelings desperate to crawl out and disrupt this happy night of girls and beer and brothers. He never should've even come. He should've stayed in the barracks, let his imagination fill in the blanks of the fun all the others are having in the bar.

“You all right, mate?”

Tommy glances up at the soldier walking by him, accent thick, brow furrowed with concern. Tommy looks down, realizes his hands are just white knuckles where they're wrapped around the edge of the table, and he shakes his head, unwilling to say anything honest. He loosens his tight grip.

“I'm fine,” he says. He stands up. “Just gonna get some air.”

He nods at the soldier. He's a Highlander carrying four freshly refilled pints; Tommy's positive he's not going to lament his absence if he leaves now. He just wants to go back. He just wants to try and sleep. He just wants to not be watching Alex lean in close to this nameless, faceless girl.

He pushes himself away from the table and stands up, heading for the door. He’s not allowed to be upset. It was a one-time thing. It was one last ditch effort to make something count before they would all be killed. It wasn’t anything. He repeats that to himself on a loop, a painful mantra he can’t back away from.

He steps out into the fresh air. This summer has been colder than usual, which is fitting, perhaps, given the circumstances. The night is dark, quiet, almost eerily tranquil. Then again, everything seems eerily tranquil to Tommy since he left Dunkirk. Like they’re all living in a fool’s paradise by not hunkering down, not expecting the bombs that are sure to come, not waiting for the Germans to round the corner with machine guns.

Behind him, the bar door creaks open. Tommy looks over his shoulder and sees Alex, dimples gone. Girl gone.

“Hey,” Alex says. “Got a cig?”

Tommy shakes his head. “Didn’t bring any with me.”

Alex nods, and Tommy supposes that’s the end of it, but then Alex steps closer to him anyway, coming to stand next to him. He can hear muffled laughter, distant through the barrier of the door, and wonders what exactly is wrong with him that he can’t enjoy himself here like everybody else clearly is. In a few days, he’ll be back to war and travel and guns and being wet and cold and tired every minute of the day, but now he’s here, somewhere safe and warm that’s trying its best to be happy, look happy.

“Not having a good time, are you?” Alex asks suddenly, exhaling into the night.

Tommy looks over at him. “Not really my crowd.”

“They invited you, didn’t they?”

 _They_ , Tommy thinks, and wants to scoff. These are Alex’s men. At least, they were down in that trawler. “You mean _we_?”

Alex gives him a long look, one that Tommy can’t quite decipher, but he doesn’t say anything. Tommy knows that on some level, he’s being cruel, because he knows perfectly well that this is what Alex dreams of every night, struggles with every night, and he’s technically apologized, in his own way.

Maybe war has just turned Tommy heartless. Or maybe he’s angry, angry that he’s so affected, so damn wrapped up in Alex, in whom he’s talking to, in how well he sleeps, in whom he flirts with on his own damn time.

“Listen,” Alex says. He scratches his jaw, looking more uncomfortable than Tommy’s used to seeing. Maybe his sleepless nights aren’t agreeing with him. “We don’t have to talk about what happened.”

Tommy isn’t sure what he’s referring to until Alex meets his gaze, eyes intent, dark, at which point Tommy has to shift on his feet because the message is abundantly clear. He doesn’t know why Alex brought it up at all. They haven’t talked about it so far, and he definitely wasn’t planning on it. He’s been thinking about it enough, about that night down in the trawler, about Alex’s hands all over him, and he doesn’t also need to dwell on it out loud. Why is he mentioning it? Is he looking for permission to talk to the girl in the bar? Is he trying to make sure Tommy gets it, gets the situation they’re in, or very much not in?

“Okay,” he says. “We won’t.”

Alex nods. “It didn’t mean anything,” he says. “I thought—”

That all of them were going to die. Tommy remembers. He also remembers other things, like Alex’s breathless words whispered into his skin, the lean line of his body curving into Tommy’s from behind, an indelible stain on his memory. The _wish we had time_. He looks away.

“It's fine,” Tommy says. It isn't, but he's getting used to this, pushing aside emotions in favor of a stony face, a stoic heart, the things one learns to grow in a war. He just—he keeps thinking about how this isn't just about what happened in the trawler anymore. Alex hasn't left his side since. Alex hasn't stopped _touching_ him since, and maybe wrapping a hand around a boy’s shoulder or holding onto the fabric of a boy’s shirt is completely harmless, but it doesn't feel that way anymore having done what they've done. They've turned their entire dynamic around ever since Alex touched Tommy in that boat and Tommy let him, and now none of it is that simple anymore.

Well. Maybe it is for Alex.

“It’s fine?” Alex repeats. He doesn’t sound like he believes him.

It’s not fine, it’s not fine. It’s not fucking fine, but Tommy isn’t going to say anything.

And then suddenly Alex is grabbing Tommy’s arm, grip agonizingly tight, and he says, pained, “Aren’t you going to fucking say something?” He looks mad, lost, aimless. “Fucking say something.”

He crowds into Tommy’s space, close enough that Tommy gets a whiff of alcohol on his breath and the burnt earth scent of gunpowder.

He looks angry, possibly as angry as Tommy feels, but he’s also close, _so close_. He grabs the side of Tommy’s cheek, fingers digging in, breathing ragged, and maybe this is it, because Alex is impossibly near and Tommy _wants_ , oh god, does he want.

The bar door opens again, drunken laughter spilling out, and Alex and Tommy separate instantly, scrambling to put distance between themselves, instantly leaving the spots Alex touched cold and tingling. The men leaving call out to them, ask them where they’ve gone and if they’re coming back for another pint or are already sloshed, most of them still cradling half-drunken bottles that they spill with every swaying step.

 _For fuck’s sake, if you all had just waited a few bloody seconds_ , Tommy thinks, suddenly livid. The alcohol—the little he imbibed, anyway—is coiling through his body like an unwanted snake, making him feel warmer and tinglier and much more privy to his emotions than he usually is. He's not sure what would've happened if those men hadn't burst out and interrupted them, but something—something would’ve happened.

He looks at Alex, who’s already looking at Tommy, eyes dark.

“We’ll come back in, lads,” Alex says, voice just on the edge of being able to conceal the fact that he’s irritated. He flicks his gaze back to the drunken boys, exhale coming out of his nose. “Just went out for a smoke.”

Neither one of them are holding cigarettes, but it doesn’t seem to matter, the others too tipsy to notice. Alex turns to go back into the bar, line of his back stiff, but Tommy doesn’t. He turns around and walks, walks for what feels like hours in the cold night air, and doesn’t stop until he’s back in the barracks, back in bed, back inside his own tumultuous, loud head.

\--

The ninth time, he wakes up to it.

It takes Tommy a moment to realize what's happening: Alex is sidling up against him in bed, an eager hand rubbing circles into Tommy's hips, an insistent knee nudging between Tommy's legs, and a hot tongue tracing the shell of Tommy's ear. Tommy jolts as if he's been electrocuted.

“Shh,” Alex murmurs behind his ear. “Don't want anyone to hear.”

It feels startlingly familiar, so much so that Tommy has to blink through the night’s darkness a few times to make sure he isn't waking up in the boat, chains digging into his spine and water leaking in from the bullet holes. He isn't, he's in his bed, safe on land, everything ordinary save for the boy suddenly crammed in next to him, body undulating against his back, spooning him ever closer.

“Thought—ah.” He cuts off on a gasp as Alex slides a hand up his shirt, calloused palm rubbing over his stomach, his sternum, his hardening nipples. “Thought we weren't going to talk about this.”

“Not talking, are we?” Alex whispers, then pinches one of his nipples for emphasis, hands cheeky. “Turn around.”

Despite himself, Tommy does. The floor creaks underneath him but doesn't manage to wake anybody up, and the second he's rolled over, face-to-face with Alex, Alex is tugging him close and pushing his hand up the back of Tommy's shirt to feel and stroke and grab the small of his back, hands impossibly big.

“Don't have to make a big deal out of it, yeah?” Alex offers, leg succeeding in sliding between Tommy's, and immediately there's a thigh rolling against his cock, coaxing him into full hardness. “It isn't.”

Tommy nods, suddenly overwhelmingly hazed from the sensations of Alex this close, their breaths mingling. The very thing he considered on the boat comes back to his mind, that they're both fucked if someone sees them or hears them or finds them and points a finger, but it's like Alex’s body has an indescribably distracting effect on him, pulling all of his concentration forward to the man in front of him, wrapped around him, rubbing him.

“C’mere,” Alex rumbles, immeasurably close, and then his hand is snaking around the side of Tommy’s jaw and pulling him in enough to kiss him.

It makes Tommy’s breath hitch, but Alex swallows the sound without missing a beat, lips slanted against Tommy’s mouth and tongue flicking over it, and when that isn't enough to break Tommy out of his surprise and elicit a reaction from him, the teeth suddenly biting down on his lower lip accomplish that easily. Tommy’s chest arches forward like a bow into Alex’s torso, heartbeat stuttering out a shaky rhythm as he tries to catch up to what exactly is happening here and why it's even happening at all, that Alex’s mouth is hot and firm and demanding on his. He kisses back then, helpless to stop it, drunk with the feeling.

Alex only ever gives him a few seconds to breathe before diving back in, his kisses relentless, hard, like a tide that washes over Tommy in shivers. He rolls on top of Tommy, the movement pulling another creak out of the floorboards, and they both freeze as someone, a few beds away, shifts. Tommy tries to find Alex’s eyes in the darkness, but they’re closed, and it’s then that he notices that the hand on his jaw is shaking, minutely, but still shaking.

Tommy curls his hand around Alex’s wrist, feeling the tremors there. “Nightmares?” he asks him, voice little more than a breath.

Alex shakes his head, and Tommy is about to persist and tell him he knows, that he sees him, that he knows he isn’t sleeping at all, but then Alex whispers back, “It was you this time, mate.”

Tommy’s mouth dries. He hadn’t realized it was obvious to anybody else, thought his body had contained it. He knows he hasn’t exactly been dreaming of the war ending and his mother’s perfume and the way the pub down the street always felt like home, but rather of capsizing ships and water in his lungs and the inexplicable, clawing, raw sensation of not being able to _breathe_ , but he didn’t know he wasn’t still and sound in form while he slept. Was he gasping aloud, crying? Was he writhing on his sheets like a man drowning?

“‘S okay,” Alex says before Tommy can reply, and he leans back down for another kiss, this one less teeth, less unyielding push.

Fuck, maybe Tommy’s shaking too. He moves without thinking, sheets tangling around them both as Tommy wraps his legs around Alex’s waist, hooking the soles of his feet into his back, urging him closer. Alex is a firm, warm, solid thing on top of him, the furthest thing from a blurred dream, and Tommy doesn’t want to hold back anymore.

Alex pulls back from Tommy’s mouth, but Tommy chases his lips, tugging him back down for more, shorter kisses, and it isn’t until he’s breathless that he lets him retreat. This is—this is addictively good, this thing with Alex. Feeling Alex’s body heat. Feeling Alex’s breath against his lower lip right before he traps it between his teeth and tugs, hard enough to almost hurt.

Why didn’t they kiss last time, in the boat? Alex’s mouth is unbearably soft yet not at all ginger, his teeth and tongue a lethal combination as he sucks on Tommy’s lower lip like it’s his goal to get Tommy to make noise even though he shouldn’t, he can’t, and he clutches at Alex embarrassingly hard, losing his breath.

“You just can’t stay quiet, can you?” Alex murmurs into Tommy’s mouth, pulling back to swipe his thumb over Tommy’s lower lip, looking down at him with a reverence, an awe. Tommy can’t help but wonder if the same expression is mirrored on his own face, cock filling between their bodies as Alex grinds down against him, core burning.

Tommy shakes his head. Truth is, he’d like to be louder. He’s never been one for talking too much, but now with Alex bent over him, lips trailing down his chin to mouth over his neck, he wants to let loose, wants to moan and whine. Alex picks a spot between his jaw and his collarbone and sucks down almost harshly, and this time Tommy really does have to hold back, biting down on the back of his hand to stay quiet.

“Don’t make marks,” he says into Alex’s ear. Alex’s resulting laugh rumbles against his chest.

“Would if I could,” Alex says, almost too quietly to hear. He kisses over the spot he just turned red, then kisses a bit lower, and lower still, until he’s fumbling to pull Tommy’s shirt away. “Y’know that, right?”

Tommy nods. He’s not sure why, but it all makes sense now, and none of it seems strange anymore, or painful, or even confusing—he just wraps himself around Alex and kisses his hairline, his cheek, desperate to get at his lips again, while he fumbles with Alex’s clothes after Alex pulls his shirt away. Who gives a fuck if everybody here wakes up and sees them. Right now Tommy can’t focus on anything but the heavy weight of Alex above him, wrapped around him, pushing his underwear out of the way, and then their cocks are touching, rubbing together, and Tommy is lost, so far gone Alex has to kiss him just to keep him quiet.

It’s nearly not enough. Even with Alex’s breath hitching in his mouth, eyes dark and hooded, cock sliding against Tommy’s, Tommy not sure how he’ll ever be able to go without this, he wants more—he wants Alex sliding inside him, filling him up, he wants all the things he knows he’s not supposed to.

“You should,” he says, but stops, swallowing. Alex’s nose bumps his, a quiet encouragement. “It’d be better if you fucked me.”

Alex’s breath hitches; Tommy feels it in his chest, in his skipping heartbeat. “Y’want me to get my Cosmoline?” Alex asks, the smile evident in his voice.

Tommy pinches his side. “Fuck off,” he murmurs, Alex’s resulting laugh deep and stifled against Tommy’s neck. The unspoken _if we’re doing this, we’re doing this right_ lingers in the air, untouched by them both, pushed aside only when Alex ruts up against him just right and _ohyesfuck_.

“Look at me,” Alex says, nearly too silent to hear, voice raspy, and his hands find Tommy’s hands, squeezing the wrists. Tommy’s opens his eyes but finds it almost hard to do so, Alex’s cock thrusting against his with almost electric shots of pleasure, Alex’s fingers hot around his wrist. “ _Fuck_. Tommy.”

Tommy nods, because he’s feeling the same things, understands it all perfectly. He pushes up into Alex’s thrusts downward, eager to feel their cocks slide together, mouth parting and legs trembling.

If only they could be louder. If only nobody else was here, leaving just them and a bed that wasn't just a sheet on the floor. If only he had grabbed some oil from the mess hall this morning, or some Vaseline from the medical tent. If only this was a few years later and they were at home, something small and private somewhere deep in England, far away from any coasts, in a house they'd built for themselves after a blissfully short war.

Tommy can't think like that. Actually, he shouldn't be thinking at all—he should be focusing wholeheartedly on the spectacle above him, on Alex, brow furrowed and eyes shut and lips parted in poorly contained bliss.

So he reaches down and takes both of them into his hand the best he can, jerking them off together, the hot skin of Alex's dick firm and warmer than expected. He wants to push Alex onto his back and slide down his body and suck his cock, wants to blow him hungrily, but he also finds he can’t quite move, too enraptured with the sensations currently wracking his body as Alex reaches down and wraps his hand around them too. His is bigger, broader, fingers enveloping their cocks and stroking them together hard, almost roughly.

“Alex,” Tommy breathes out, voice so ragged it almost surprises him. He wants to say something—he’s not sure what—but Alex seems to already know, free hand carding through Tommy’s hair again and again as he leans in and kisses him, kisses getting sloppy in their fervor, wetter, slicker.

He doesn’t want this to be over, or perhaps he’d settle for just doing this again, and then a few times more after that, never stopping, preferably. He doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want to shut the book on this. He wants to be drunk on the feeling of Alex’s arms around him always, Alex’s body flush against him.

“God, yeah,” Alex says, tearing himself away from Tommy’s mouth to speak into his ear, biting the lobe. “C’mon, Tommy.”

He squeezes Tommy’s cock, hands getting impatient, greedy, and Tommy just arches into him, forehead getting sweaty, mouth dry. He knows he’s close, knows that he’s about to blow and has no idea how to keep quiet, so he buries his face into Alex’s neck and digs his teeth into his shoulder, hips hiccuping upward as his orgasm hits. Alex is murmuring nothings into his skin, useless moans and filthy encouragements, interrupted by a sharp gasp as Tommy bites down hard enough to leave red teeth marks in his wake.

Warmth spreads over Tommy’s stomach, and it takes him a bit to realize that Alex has come too and is spilling over Tommy’s belly, the waves of his orgasm still too overwhelming for him to make out much of reality. His eyes flutter open—when did he shut them?—and he sees Alex’s shoulders, shaking with exertion, and the brilliant bite mark he just left on him, shining wet from Tommy’s mouth.

He touches it with his thumb, delighting in Alex’s breathy chuckle.

“Bloody animal, you are,” Alex murmurs, but he sounds amused, pleased.

Tommy feels the bed shift after a few seconds of waiting for his heartbeat to calm, and the sheer panic that Alex might be leaving seizes Tommy and forces him to reach out and grab the closest part of Alex he can find. It happens to be his knee, and Tommy digs his fingers into it.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Maybe we’ll sleep better if we.” He swallows, unsure if he’s making a mistake, expecting a furrowed brow and a shake of the head.

He isn’t, though. Alex makes a soft noise, something that sounds like agreement, and then he’s settling himself back down next to Tommy, pulling him in close and guiding his face into the crook of his shoulder with a hand on the back of his head.

“Let’s try it,” Alex says into hair.

It feels… nice. Good. Tommy tucks himself into Alex and then Alex drapes a leg over Tommy and it all just fits, almost disconcertingly. Alex’s skin is soft, sweaty, almost too warm where Tommy’s cheek is pressed into his shoulder, but the steady beat of his heart is calming, mingling with Tommy’s own as their torsos align.

He wonders if they’ll have to move before tomorrow morning, if the other boys would see them like this, all twined up and breathing in the same patterns, and come to conclusions—right ones, as it were—or if they wouldn’t spare them a second glance. They should, they really should. But he’ll worry about that later.

Right now, he just sleeps.

He wakes up to the dawn having no clue just how long he’s slept, possibly hours, possibly days, because he feels rested to the point of lethargy, the bed softer, warmer, comfier than it ever has been before. A gentle exhale lands on his shoulder and he turns, realizing, remembering. Alex is still here, barely aglow in the early morning light, looking more peaceful than Tommy remembers him ever seeming. Younger. Sweeter.

Tommy reaches out to trace one eyebrow, the left one. Alex is still asleep, eyelids not fluttering with disruptive dreams and mouth not working with wordless sobs, and Tommy feels—remarkably similar. Not bogged down with a heavy heart. Not this morning, anyway. Not right now.

Alex’s eyes slide open a few moments later, Tommy’s light touches pulling him back to consciousness, and for a quick panicked second, Tommy wonders if he shouldn’t be here, if Alex will wake up and recall everything and shove Tommy away, disgusted.

But he doesn’t. He opens his eyes fully and looks at Tommy and seems to drink in the sight, his sleep-woven face and lidded gaze, and an almost-smile crooks the corner of his mouth. He reaches out to touch, and his hands find Tommy’s hair like it’s natural, like it’s habit.

“Sight for sore eyes, you are,” Alex murmurs, his voice even deeper with sleep. He tugs on the strands by Tommy’s ear almost too hard, but then he smooths down the hurt with his thumb, licking his lips.

“Yeah?” Tommy mumbles. “You look like shit.”

Alex lets out a low, surprised laugh, one much too loud for the sleeping soldiers around them even though none of them—luckily—startle awake. He tugs Tommy down back on top of him, and this, _this_ , this is it—finally Tommy understands, finally Tommy gets how those men at the bar could bear to be happy even when they knew what was looming ahead.

“Really? ‘Cause I feel pretty fucking great.”

Tommy nods. He does too. Alex pulls him down for a kiss with the assuredness of a man who is used to getting what he wants, and Tommy lets him, keening for it.

When he pulls away, there’s something almost unreadable, something eclipsed on Alex’s face, and it takes Tommy a minute to figure out that it’s a flicker of sadness. It’s a misery that Alex has become an expert in hiding, except for when Tommy’s looking. It’s that same sadness from the train, when he thought he’d let everybody back home down, or the sadness he’s been wallowing in at nights, when he realizes he’s let himself down. And now—

“Not gonna be like this forever,” Alex murmurs, almost making it sound like a question, and _oh_. Tommy understands. Fuck, that very same sadness is smothering his bones when he thinks about it too hard.

They’re going to be separated. They’re going to be sent off god knows where for a war that’ll last god knows how long. Maybe one of them will go home, and things will be so good there, so light and serene and comfortable, that it’ll be easy to forget about the other. Maybe they’ll want to. Maybe at home all memories of Dunkirk will be like a painful wound you can’t bear to look at, much less peel at.

Maybe this is the end for them.

Tommy nods, not quite sure there are any words he can say that can make any of it better. Alex speaks up instead, finding one of Tommy’s hands, warm under the covers. “But until then, yeah?”

He nods again. They don’t have much time, maybe just a day or two, and then the army will scrounge them all up again and send them packing. And what comes next—well, Tommy doesn’t have a fucking clue. The only comfort, it seems, is that Alex doesn’t have a clue either, his grip tight on Tommy’s palm.

Tommy looks around the room, still just bathed in the barest of glows. The sun hasn’t come up yet. They still have time.

\--

The tenth time—the last time—is before Alex leaves.

Even though Tommy knew it would have to end like this, he still wasn’t convinced it really would. They’d been through so much together. They’d been through Dunkirk together. They’re a team, an alliance made not out of obligation but out of free will, out of a solace found within each other, out of the knowledge that nobody else had lived their shared experiences quite like they had. Tommy expected to leave Dunkirk hating Alex for his selfishness and found he couldn’t, found he wasn’t able to bear it, and that should’ve been enough to keep them together, but it isn’t. Of course it isn’t.

Alex’s convoy is leaving. Alex is leaving, and Tommy is going to leave soon too, and now here they are, trying to say goodbye and not knowing how to go about it.

He isn’t going to cry. He hasn’t cried this entire damn war. Not when he thought he was going to die, and not when he saw other men die, and not now, not when his one unlikely anchor is going. Tommy looks at him, his strong jaw and tousled hair, and wonders if he has to catalogue every detail, every flaw, because he’ll never actually see it again.

If he doesn’t, he wonders if his brain will exaggerate Alex over time. His good looks. His allure. His deep voice.

He almost doesn’t expect Alex to say goodbye. Alex doesn’t seem like the type for them, opting rather for quick farewells if any at all, but that day, the day he’s leaving while hundreds of other soldiers bustle around them, preparing for the same trip, he finds Tommy anyway.

He grabs Tommy’s hand, and it takes Tommy a moment to realize he’s stuffed something into it.

“Write,” he says—commands, really. “I’m serious, Tommy, _write_.”

Tommy unfolds the piece of paper crinkled in his palm. There’s an address scribbled on it, and Tommy feels something in his heart seize up.

“As much as you bloody want,” Alex says. He’s ducked in close now, breath warm on Tommy’s cheek. He folds Tommy’s fingers over the paper, closing his fist securely over his hand, like he’s desperate to not have Tommy lose it. He remembers what Alex said that night he woke to him close enough to not even let air pass through them, how he had kissed him and said _don’t have to make a big deal out of it, yeah?_ But it is. They both know it is. “It’ll keep me fucking sane.”

“Me too,” Tommy admits.

Alex's eyes scan their surroundings, at the men milling around them. They’re not really paying attention, but it’s still too risky—even so, Tommy knows exactly what kind of frustration Alex has pitted in his chest right now, the exasperation that they deserve better than this, they deserve a proper goodbye.

Alex surges forward, his impulse outweighing his care for whoever’s watching, and he presses a firm, harsh kiss against Tommy’s cheekbone as he crushes Tommy’s forearms in his hands.

“You’re gonna make it back, all right?” he says roughly against his cheek. “Do whatever you have to.”

Tommy nods, and then his eyes are wet, hot and burning with unshed tears, and he tries to hold them back, unwilling to let them fall. It’s unfair. Everyone keeps saying that war is unfair, but what comes after is just as unfair, just as hard. Trying to rebuild. Trying to reconstruct. Trying to let go of something you’ve just started to learn to hold.

“When this is all over,” Alex says to him, “we’ll try this again.”

It sounds like a plea. Perhaps a promise.

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. They will. If they make it through, and England makes it through, and the memories aren’t too painful, and they both still remember how it felt to stand here and hold onto each other and wish, speechlessly, that they wouldn’t have to let go, they’ll try this again. They’ll do it right.


End file.
